


R&R

by buttercups3



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bass acting judgmental abt German TV because he doesn't speak the language, Bass extracts hugs, Iraq Years, M/M, Miles doles out hugs too, Post-coitus cuddle, Shower Sex, Smut, Soldier feels, Spätzle is a delicious German food, bottom!Miles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2013-10-06
Packaged: 2017-12-28 00:05:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/985236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttercups3/pseuds/buttercups3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bass and Miles win some R&R time at the US base in Garmisch, Germany. They engage in some feels, some fluff, and mostly some sex. Bass' POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Gonna shower,” grunts Miles mid-typical-audacious gait to conquer the tiny European bathroom, shedding combat fatigues on the approach. For a moment, Bass fears Miles is going to parakeet-smack into the glass partition of the shower, Miles is so fixated on his buttons, brow furrowed like a schoolboy gearing up for the big test.

Bass’ chest burns at the image; he wants to think of Miles like that – an ADD-hamstrung kid exasperated by the conventions of school. Because there's nothing left about them that is innocent. They’ve been through a hellacious second tour in Iraq. The prize for their efforts? Some R&R at the Edelweiss Resort on base in Garmisch, Germany. The Marine Corps hasn't even bothered to clarify where they'll touch down next – whether they’ll be redeployed to Iraq or sent to Parris Island. They're in it though, that's for damn sure; they're not fucking going home. Word on the street is any table scrap of rage militaire Americans ever had to blitz the Taliban for 9/11 has withered. They’ve forgotten we’re even at war. So fuck it. Bass and Miles are here to enjoy the beer, feast their sand-weary eyes on the glittering aquamarine of the Eibsee, and laugh at the goddamn Bavarian accents that sound like you’re holding your nose at someone's fart. And they're here to fuck, of course. Bass has had a constant hard-on for weeks. Just the thought of Miles washing away their shitty day of planing and training their asses to the Alps makes Bass' dick throb and near weep.

Bass can't see Miles anymore from his vantage point in the hotel room, but based on the lack of _thunk_ , Miles must have stopped short of collision with the glass. Shower sex seems like a decent enough entree to R&R. Bass first picks up Miles’ uniform and hangs it over a chair. Stupid fucker hates ironing, so you’d think he’d take a little more care with his wardrobe. Bass procedes to disrobe, folding his fatigues over Miles’ and taking a moment to acknowledge their camos' sad union. Yes, this tour took a bite out of them – a chunk of humanity they’ll never get back. And, as usual, Miles is measuring his pain in silent scowls, while Bass just wants to fucking hug it out.

His bare feet pad on the cool blue tiles. German bathrooms are visions in modernist art. There’s the glass partition that dissects Miles’ gleaming body from view, but otherwise the toilet, sink, and shower coexist in unfettered harmony. Trailing his eyes down the lean ropes of Miles’ back should be making Bass harder, but instead it’s making him sad. _Fuck war._ How does it get this far under your skin?

Bass senses from the minute tension in Miles' shoulders that his presence has been acknowledged. Stepping in the warm stream behind his best friend, Bass conforms his body to the curves of Miles’ back and enwraps him with his arms. Miles doesn’t respond except to lean back ever so slightly - enough to signal Bass is welcome.

Bass wants to ask Miles if he’s ok, but it’ll just piss him off. And Bass already knows the fucking answer, since he himself is not okay. He’s been jumping at every sharp noise, scanning every car on the street for IEDs; the charred limbs of babies have been beckoning him away from sanity. He allows the water to melt him further into Miles' sinews, Bass' reawakening erection prodding the cheeks of Miles’ ass. He extracts the soap from Miles’ fingers and begins rubbing down the chest hair with a _jingle_ of dog tags, progressing to lathering the rough pubic hair. He senses the erection beneath before trailing his soapy fingers along its shaft.

Miles rubs his ass against Bass’ boner in response, and Bass decides he’s impatient enough to cut the foreplay to a minimum. Bass thrusts Miles violently forward into the tiled wall with his pelvis, simultaneously parting Miles' thighs with a knee. Since Miles usually tops, Bass has his doubts that his friend will spread 'em, but Miles folds with a curt growl over his shoulder:

“You’d better not be planning on using soap on my ass, cocksucker, or this’ll be the last time I let you in.”

Fair enough. Soap makes a terrible lube. Bass reaches his arm around the glass to fish briefly through Miles’ toiletries bag until he feels a tube. It might as well be his fucking birthday – he can’t get into Miles’ ass soon enough. The fates are with him, it seems; when he reaches down to finger Miles’ hole, it's relatively pliable. He pushes against it with the pad of his finger, and the sphincter pulses in what Bass decides is appreciation. Goddamn this is nice – fucking his best friend in the German Alps. He never wants this to end. He hooks a finger just inside the hole, and Miles grunts. Then Bass goes hunting for prostate.

Getting your dick in someone’s ass while they’re standing in front of you is not as easy as it sounds, even though they’re approximately the same height. Miles looks like he’s being police-frisked, his hands spread out in front of him, his legs wide apart, and Bass trying to push into him, forcing Miles onto his toes.

“Goddammit, Miles, this isn’t working,” or at least, Bass doesn’t have the patience to make it work. He needs this lay _now_.

Miles glowers over his shoulder but sinks down onto all fours - probably not the most comfortable for his knees, as one is slightly jacked from their previous tour - but Bass is able to enter him at last. Bass isn't as nice about this as he should be, and Miles feels sort of tense all around him. As compensation, Bass does his best to hold Miles – let him know he is loved – while he gives him a brutal pounding from behind. _Fuck, fuck, fuck_ , he’s not quite getting there. Granted it’s been under a minute, but he's desperate to fill Miles, to forget everything about shit-pile Iraq. And then his body starts giving – the muscles coiling up, his lower abs aching, twitching. He registers that Miles has been jerking himself in time with the thrusts and is coming now - the sphincter contracting around Bass' dick. Miles finishes with a small noise somewhere between a groan and a whimper. It’s sexy enough to slay Bass. He pounds into Miles’ prostate and loses himself, exploding into blackness, draining the entirety of his seed.

Bass loses time for a moment, and when he resurfaces, he feels Miles shivering. Suddenly protective and frankly feeling a bit shitty about his performance – he should have taken better care of the man he loves, not just here on the cold ceramic tile but in Iraq, where Bass watched Miles nearly drown in self-loathing - Bass squeezes Miles' thin frame tightly.

The water is still pouring over them from above, as Bass gently pulls out, and helps Miles up with a firm hand. Miles doesn’t even look at him – just goes back to soaping himself and rinsing off. Bass washes his own limp dick, his armpits, his feet. The soap has a crisp, lemony scent. Miles finishes first and exits the shower without a word. From the corner of his eye, Bass watches Miles bend over to dry his legs, the _clink, clink_ of the tags. The sad, dark eyes appear to gaze through his own skin. Miles wraps the white towel around his waist and disappears from sight. After Bass finishes, he performs an identical ritual and seeks out his friend.

Miles sits cross-legged in his towel on one of the twin beds, staring at a TV program, which appears to be some absurdist, burlesque thing only the Germans could have dreamed up – all women in dirndl and men in lederhosen, chasing each other with large brass instruments. Bass plops beside Miles, reaching over to massage one of his tight trapeziuses.

“You ok, man?” he forces his lips to comply with his brain. God - he's fucking exhausted. Miles must be too - he can barely drag his dark eyes away from the TV to make brief contact with Bass.

Miles nods once and resumes staring at the TV, but Bass suddenly needs more - desperately craves intimacy. Bass runs his nails over Miles’ clipped scalp and watches the reflection of the blue and green screen in the chocolate eyes.

Finally, just when Bass is about to give up, Miles inclines his head slightly to rest on Bass’ shoulder, putting some weight into it - a true release. Bass drops his cheek onto the wet chestnut crown and reaches under Miles' chin to cup his face. They stay that way until a big-busted chick clocks a ruddy-cheeked, rotund man with her tuba, signifying the show's end. It's pretty fucking farcical, though neither of them laugh. They just allow their mutually deprived nerve-endings to mend one another by touch. Their skin has an ancient history together the war can't take away.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Umm...well now there's at least one more chapter, because I haven't yet succeeded in getting the boys out of their hotel room to enjoy the German Alps. I mean...lake sex. Beer. They still need to experience such things. The Miloe porn will continue until my muse quits wanking.

Though they’re in what could really be one of the most beautiful settings on earth – where the alpine river runs milky blue and honest-to-goodness edelweiss bloom like snowdrops (just like in the fucking song) – the Marines don’t end up leaving their hotel room that first day. They have to order in for dinner, and Miles is so ashamed that they’re two dudes sharing one room that when the service knocks, he hides in the bathroom, in which their mutual jizz is probably still splattered over the tiled walls. Bass is used to Miles being more embarrassed of them than he is, but still, it kind of irks him. 

“Come out here, ya pansy, before I eat all your spätzle,” Bass bellows, though he pronounces it spetzy.

“You’re gonna eat my what?” Miles flings himself around the bathroom door frame and onto Bass' bed, nearly sending the cutlery and trays flying. 

Bass cradles them possessively to his chest. “Your macaroni looking stuff, turd-for-brains.”

“You don’t have the guts,” Miles shrugs and starts shoveling in his spätzle at Mach 4.

“Jesus, Miles. Slow down. I don’t know the Heimlich.”

“It’s German, right?” A smart-ass shrug.

Bass rolls his eyes.

“I can manage my food,” Miles insists with his mouth chock-full, masticated egg noodle transmuting into baby barf.

“Fucking raised by wolves,” Bass shakes his head sadly, looking away from the hideous spectacle toward the TV. Bass has changed the channel to BBC news, and unfortunately, it’s on Iraq. President Bush is delivering some kind of address, and Miles has gone still.

Bass sighs. “Sorry, man,” and zaps it off. “Hey, we can talk instead."

An explosive snort from Miles, in turn, makes Bass laugh.

“Yeah, I know. Crazy suggestion.” Bass dives into his sausage and potato salad. It’s fucking delicious. He loves this country. But somehow his brain has run aground on the question that’s been haunting him all day. “Hey, uh…do you…how many more of these do you think you have in you?” 

Miles eyes Bass from under a dark eyebrow. “How many more of what?”

“Tours.”

“Well…I dunno. I can’t think of anything else to do with myself. I mean, what am I gonna do – paint fences for a living?”

Bass scoffs.

“Yeah. I’m shit at everything else.” Miles glances at Bass almost shyly. “I’ll probably stick around in the Marines until retirement.” He digs his fork through some cheese and lets it slowly ooze down onto the plate again. “But I mean, _you_ could do something else. You’re good at lots of stuff.”

Bass laughs. “Thanks for the resounding but vague confidence, Miles.”

Miles shrugs at him. Miles honestly believes what he's said – Bass can tell. His friend’s black eyes are swirling with emotions – foremost appears to be fear that Bass will actually take up Miles on his suggestion.

“Nah, I couldn’t leave you. What would happen to you out here without me to watch your ass? Not to mention, to bat my eyelashes at the Edelweiss kitchen for food when you don’t know what the hell you’re ordering?” Bass helps himself to some of Miles’ noodles, as a smile flits at the corners of Miles’ lips.

With sudden aggression, Miles threads his fingers into Bass’, immobilizing the fork and the stolen spätzle. A click and the smile is gone. “But…if you can’t, I mean, if you don’t want to do this anymore, I get it. It’s rough,” Miles mumbles without looking up.

“No,” Bass reassures. “Home’s wherever you are – where the hell else would I go?”

Miles releases Bass’ fingers then, and Bass brings the steaming, cheesy pillows to his mouth. They eat the rest of their grub in silence.

Hours later, they settle down for sleep on the twin beds, and Bass clicks off the light. There’s some considerable huffing and puffing coming from Miles’ side of the room. Bass is just about to put a pillow over his ears to drown it out when he hears:

“You really gonna sleep over _there_?” Grumpy, demanding.

Bass can’t help but grin. He could make Miles suffer a little, but why deprive himself of what he wants? Bass knows Miles prefers to sleep in the nude, so he makes sure to dispense with his own preferred pjs – boxer shorts – before lifting up the sheets to scrunch into the tiny bed alongside his long-limbed companion.

“You know, twin beds aren’t really made for two grown men,” Bass complains.

“They are when one’s on top and one’s on bottom,” Miles suggests with an air of pride for devising this retort.

“Oh, is that why you asked me over? For the sex?”

“No. I asked you because…” But Miles suddenly sounds serious.

Bass rolls on top of Miles, the rendezvous of hard chest contrasting with pillowy genitals.

Miles blinks and swallows. “I just wanted you here.”

“S’romantic,” Bass whispers and gently bites at Miles’ lower lip. “You’re not the sweetest talker, but I guess I’m stuck with you.” 

Miles kisses Bass back, streaming his fingers down Bass’ spine. Bass takes the opportunity to slowly rub his pelvis back and forth, summoning instant blood to both dicks. The sandpaper scratch of cheek-stubble and the gentle gasps for breath fill the dark with comfort. Miles tastes not unpleasantly like mint toothpaste and cheese. 

A sudden transition and Miles is desperately grinding his rock-hard cock against Bass’, like Miles is trying to deliver a second-degree burn. Jesus. It’s a bit much, but Bass doesn’t feel like depriving his friend of what he needs. Miles is coming. It’s all so quick, it’s a little surprising. Miles’ cheeks flush in excitement, then embarrassment. That’s twice in one day where Miles has spent himself in under a minute.

“Sorry,” Miles mumbles.

Bass barks a laugh and buries his face in Miles’ neck, nipping at the earlobe. He couldn’t ever explain this to someone else – that sweet quality of innocence about the usually surly Miles. Fuck it, all of a sudden, Bass needs to say it. It won't be the first time, but they don’t say it often.

“Love you, you stupid fuck,” Bass proclaims to Miles’ prickly neck, and Miles shoots him a startled little look, as if to say: _I just prematurely came, and still I get this?_

“Huh, Miles. I don’t care about you rubbing off on me like a teenager. In fact, it makes me feel kinda hot.”

“You are hot,” Miles agrees, and it’s so rare to get a compliment like that from Miles, that Bass sighs a little and melts into him.

Miles performs an amazing maneuver that flips Bass onto his back with Miles on top, disappearing abruptly under the sheet. Bass feels his beau use the sheet in passing to wipe off the seed from Bass’ pelvis. In a moment, wet lips hit his sensitive head, and Bass is done with thinking.

Plunging up and down Bass’ shaft, Miles immediately takes in the cock as far as it will go. Once Bass starts moaning, Miles pulls off, jacking Bass so vigorously his brain rings. Then, just as Bass is about to lose it, Miles pops the dick back in, gliding tight lips along the length, mouth fucking Bass to an extraordinary release. Bass comes entirely in Miles’ mouth, and he just keeps drinking it up. Fuck. The man knows how to give a blowjob, when he puts his mind to it.

Bass smacks his head against the pillow and wheezes. “You could just say you love me back,” squeezing his eyes to try to clear the rainbow streamers that are obscuring his night vision.

Miles emerges from below and suspends over Bass’ face, whispering, “Love you back.” He’s got enough cum on his face to be comical. Bass snorts and wipes it off Miles’ rough cheek with the back of his hand.

“You’re crushing me,” he informs Miles, who rolls immediately to the side and draws Bass against his lean muscles in a tight hug.

It’s romantic at first – holding each other in these close quarters – but, as usual, Miles falls promptly to sleep and goes all pointy limbs and jagged edges. Bass feels a bit bad about it, but Miles sleeps like he’s dead unless he’s in the field, so Bass gives his friend a gentle nudge until the gangly body _plunks_ down onto the carpet. Miles sleeps beside the bed for the rest of the night.


	3. Chapter 3

Miles doesn’t _look_ like he’s made out of knives when he’s just lying there peacefully on the floor, but Bass has slept next to him enough times to know the truth. He swings his legs over the side of the bed to plant his feet right by Miles’ nose.

“Rise and shine, bud!” Bass prods the stubbled cheek with a toe while stretching his arms to the wingspan of a condor.

“Getchur foot outta my face,” grumbles Miles, rolling onto his stomach and blocking his face with his arms. He’s never been a morning person.

Bass uses his heel to give Miles’ bare ass an encouraging slap. “Come on now, sarge. I was thinking we could run up the trail to the summit. I know how you love hills.”

“Have I mentioned I hate you?”

Miles is difficult to mobilize, and yes, Bass can beat him in short bursts of speed, but once Miles gets going, he possesses the real physical endurance in this duo. No doubt it’ll be Miles pushing Bass’ ass up the mountain by the end of their run. But for now, Bass will relish holding the reigns. 

Bass fills his lungs luxuriantly and informs his sleepy companion, “You smell like jizz.”

Miles finally rolls over to blink into the sun streaming in between the not-quite-drawn curtains. He rubs his eyes vigorously like a toddler and grunts. “Shower and coffee.”

“Nope and nope. Exercise first. You know I hate running on a full stomach. And what’s the point of showering when you’re going to smell like a festering farm animal in an hour? We can hop in the lake once we’ve come down from the summit.”

“Ugh,” Miles objects. 

Sure enough, forty minutes later Bass is watching Miles’ bouncing ass gambol up the trail, while Bass lags miserably behind – the altitude wringing the life out of his bronchial tubes. He imagines his lungs as wasted bagpipes. He fantasizes briefly about curling up alongside the trail and accepting death. The unreal thing is he’s just gotten lapped by some old Germans and their clicking walking sticks. They are fucking _walking_ faster than Bass is running. He had to step aside when they politely called, “Entschuldigung!”

When Miles noticed the commotion behind, he mounted the embankment to let them pass, but it’s only now he thinks to look back at his beau, shooting Bass a quizzical little grin. At last, he loops around to push against his friend’s sweaty back. 

“Get off of me. I hate you!” Bass wheezes. 

“This was your idea!” Miles gasps.

So he’s hurting too. It’s always hard to tell, he’s such a stoic. Like a dog who doesn’t want to show weakness and trigger a pack attack. “We’re almost at the top; just keeping going.”

Bass rolls his eyes but obeys. Hell, they’re both sergeants – they’re used to manufacturing morale when there is none to be had. Like the best of noncoms, Miles trails behind Bass the rest of the way to bolster Bass’ spirits. It’s fucking sweet. When they reach the summit, Bass doubles over in a cramp until he feels a gentle hand on his shoulder, summoning his attention. Miles points outward. It’s absolutely the most stunning view Bass has ever beheld: craggy mountains like chess pieces haloed by the morning sun, facing each other across the great board of opaly lakes and verdant forest.

“Christ. It’s fucking heaven.” Sounds cheesy, but _damn_. Bass never needs to see the desert again. 

“Worth it?” Miles half asks, half states.

“The shit we do together usually is,” Bass returns now fully indulging his corny mood. Why the hell not? They’re alive, they’re away from the warfront, and they’re in paradise. Bass plans to ravage the man he loves a few more times before lunch just to make the feeling last.

They begin the descent – hard as hell on the knees, reminding them they’re edging ever closer to thirty – until they plateau at the lake. They rustle through the forest on a stone path – charming as a fucking Hansel and Gretel scene – to the sandy shore, and Miles immediately flings off his shoes and socks to splash into the shimmering water.

“It’s fucking freezing!” his voice quavers.

Bass stands there in approval of Miles’ pale, muscular legs. They’ve spent hundreds of days in Iraq, but Miles might as well have been in the Icelandic winter for all the sun he’s soaked up from the neck down. Bass finds he wants Miles something powerful. 

 “We could strip and have lake sex,” Bass suggests causally, wading in up to his own knees after divesting himself of his shoes and socks.

“Man, there’s like old Germans over there,” Miles gestures. “I’m not going to,” he lowers his voice in deference to said elders, “ _bang_ you in the lake.”

Bass pouts dramatically, because this tends to work on Miles if he’s at all horny, and apparently he _is_ because he whispers:

“Ok, I have a minor boner for you right now. But that’s beside the point. We can’t fuck in public.”

Bass’ dick lurches a little. The water really is icy though, so if they’re going to play, they best get out.

“Come on, I’ve got an idea.” Bass grabs Miles’ bicep and leads him back to shore. They pick up their shoes and socks and sprint barefoot, noiseless through the springy pine needles.

“Bass, where –” comes Miles’ breathless voice behind him.

Bass grabs Miles by the back of the neck and swings him into a small feeding stall presumably for the cows that appear to wander around here unfettered, bells clanging merrily. Cornered against the wood-planked wall, Miles actually smiles at Bass – teeth and all. It’s been forever since he's seen Miles’ teeth.

They voraciously make out – tongue crammed against tongue – as Bass feels Miles slip his hand into his nylon athletic shorts to graze his dick and then snake around to part his butt cheeks.

“Sweat – the natural lube,” Miles says into Bass’ open mouth before swinging him roughly onto the grassy floor. Miles pulls Bass’ irksome shorts down and off and watches approvingly as the cock springs upward like a gift, before doing away with his own. Fingers encircle and slide against the straining veins of Bass’ dick, and he has to brace himself against the urge to peep when Miles jams an eager finger in his hole. Bass decides to give into his fatigue and lie back, letting whatever Miles wants to happen happen. More fingers intrude upon his hole, pulling it wide open; his dick is making a _slip, slip, slip_ sound in Miles’ left hand, and Bass closes his eyes against an unholy groan.

“Uh. Make that sound again and everyone for a mile around is gonna come in their pants,” Miles half-heartedly complains, his own dick impressively hard for not having been touched. Bass reaches forward to grab hold of the throbbing pink mass and feeds it into his hole, lifting his legs onto Miles’ shoulders. Miles pulls up Bass’ shirt to grab hold of his pecs and squeeze.

Given the enormous pressure against his prostate, Bass can scarcely breathe. He’s gripping at the grass on either side of him, his dick suctioned by sweat to Miles’ hand. 

“Come on, Bass. Give it up,” Miles’ swollen lips instruct.

“I don’t take orders from you,” Bass rasps, totally on the verge of coming, but reveling in resistance.

“Like hell you don’t,” Miles whispers with a sudden thrust and yank. Bass’ prostate involuntarily pulses, his dick wrung out like a rubber chicken, and there’s no way to hold out any longer.

“Fuuuuck,” Bass moans, watching Miles wrench cum from his cock.

“Uh. Could do that all day,” Miles lolls his head. He’s apparently too impatient to finish in Bass and pulls out, jerking himself rambunctiously to form an instant soup of their common fluids. Miles flings himself belly down next to Bass, still stroking himself from his orgasm. “So hungry. Need sausage.”

Bass cocks his eyebrow at Miles. “You always need sausage.”

“Is 0900 too early for beer?” Miles rolls his face over into Bass’ armpit, which probably doesn’t smell great, but Miles doesn’t seem to mind. 

“Um…no?”

“Good answer. Sausage, beer, then more sex.”

“I love Germany.” Bass kisses the damp chestnut hair in appreciation of all they’ve accomplished.

“Me too.”


End file.
